


Flecks of Light and Dark

by volunteerfd



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale & Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Cults, Fire, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Near Death Experiences, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Crowley
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-06-28 11:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19811362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: Being human is difficult even if you're not human.Aziraphale finds ways to cope with emotions that creep up on him, feelings that explode inside of him, missions that don't make sense, violence, bloodshed, and the strange inexplicableness of Heaven and Earth.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Did someone ask for angst and more pining?
> 
> I wasn't sure how to tag this with regards to gore. Gore and violence definitely play a role in the story, but I don't really go into detail and I wouldn't call it graphic. If you think the tags should be different or if you know of a specific one I should add, please let me know.
> 
> What else? Aziraphale's an anxious boy.
> 
> Thanks, again and again, to heyjupiter for her eyes.

Humans had a tremendous capacity for empathy. In Aziraphale’s opinion, it was this, more than divinity or free will, that separated them from angels and demons. Humans had a million different ways to say “I hear you.” A glance, a poem, a touch--little things that chipped away at loneliness. Angels had none.

Angels weren’t supposed to feel lonely. They weren’t supposed to feel much. Their lack of emotional communication stemmed from their lack of emotional variation: as a species, they were allotted around four different emotions, maybe six depending on semantic nuance.

Certainty, for one. All angels must be Certain. The more Certain you were, the higher up you ranked. There was a hard limit to how Uncertain you could be, and Aziraphale was sure he was at it. Once you broke that threshold, though, you stood at the precipice of Falling. If you mixed Doubt with Defiance, you’d be pushed over the edge. Luckily, Aziraphale was Obedient, and that balanced out what he lacked in Certainty and kept him safely tethered to the ground. 

Related to Certainty was Confidence, which Aziraphale also lacked.

Angels could be Proud, but only about specific things, like their Sense of Purpose. Their Single-Minded Devotion To Their Mission. Aziraphale wished he had those. He couldn’t be described as single-minded. More like “too-many-minded.” Too many interests, too many hobbies, too many distractions. He was certain they stationed him in Earth because he was an odd duck. If he weren’t available, they might have drawn straws; as it was, _he_ was the short straw.

He didn’t mind it. It was a favor. He never felt like he belonged with the other angels, and feeling like you belonged was a core component of being an angel. 

Anyway, if the only thing he had going for him was Obedience--and that was, really, the only thing he had going for him, being devoid of Pride and Purpose and Certainty and Confidence--he would go to his assignments with a smile.  


**Fuck-all, BC**

The first time Aziraphale got blood on him was during the first murder. Yes, that one. 

Siblings were a nice idea in theory. Aziraphale wanted to believe they were a nice idea, at any rate. He knew that being the only one of one’s kind in a specific predicament was lonely and isolating and siblings, ideally, were ready-made friends who kept a person company while their parents botched child-rearing. Angels were technically siblings but in practice they were more like co-workers. Apparently, human siblings were supposed to be closer, and ideally each family would have fewer than ten million of them, so their relationships would be more meaningfully. Ideally. 

He had a bad feeling about siblings. Possessiveness and jealousy were fierce and terrible motivators, and he could just imagine what sharing caregivers and resources and genetic material would do. He almost suggested limiting couples to one child, but the math didn’t work out. 

Then again, he was prone to worry. On the whole, the concept of families was better than not, and without siblings, the practice was rather limited. Besides, what was he going to do--tell humans not to procreate? That would take a force stronger than God.

Then the sons were born, and Aziraphale had no idea why he’d been worried. They were just plump little babies who gurgled and cooed. True, Cain was a bit more aggressive, and he’d grab Abel’s feetsies and make him cry, but the world was terribly frightening, especially for little newborn creatures. Surely, he’d mellow with age. 

It was cute how different they were. One raised livestock, the other farmed. One was loud and boisterous, the other was quiet and pensive. It seemed like that was the way the world was supposed to be: in strange yet harmonious balance. They grew into strapping young men.

It was going to be a nice week. Aziraphale looked forward to a few days without Crowley, who’d slithered off to “see what was out there,” whatever that meant. Demons were encouraged to explore. Angels, not so much, so Aziraphale stayed at his post near the first family. 

He counted on peace and quiet. What could go wrong between a family of four?

In the end, he never got the specifics. He was at the river when he heard Cain shouting. He ran over, hoping to mediate. It wasn’t like the brotherly tiffs they had before. This was visceral and violent.

“Come on, kids, settle down,” he said. He stepped between them, arms outstretched. They sidestepped him as if he were nothing more than a nuisance pile of rubbish, and then he leapt between them again, and then they moved again, inexorably drawn to each other. _A little help would be nice,_ Aziraphale thought, but the Heavenly host was radio silent. If he could keep them a good distance apart until they calmed down… “What I like to do when I’m riled up--”

Aziraphale never had a chance to tell them. In the blink of an eye, Cain picked up a large rock and charged at Abel. Then, rock clutched firmly, he raised his hand again and again into his brother’s face.

Aziraphale thought humans were filled with water. They drank so much of it, after all. It turned out they were filled with blood, and blood was hot and sticky and viscous and red. Aziraphale felt the splatter on his cheek. When he tried to wipe it off, it smeared on his hand. 

“ _Why did you do that?_ ” Aziraphale shouted. It sounded rhetorical, but he wanted an answer. He needed an answer. He needed to know how it happened so that it could never happen again. 

Cain stared at him, eyes wide and white underneath a vast coat of red. He didn’t have an answer. He let the bloody rock fall from his hand.

A few days later, Crowley returned from his travels. Aziraphale felt relief he didn’t want to feel and then told himself that he was not in the mood to talk to a demon. Maybe, for once, Crowley wouldn’t want to chat. 

Aziraphale’s hopes were misplaced: Crowley went straight to him. He stood at Aziraphale’s side as if he were welcome. Aziraphale was too polite to do anything but give a curt smile.

“Heard what happened,” Crowley said.

“I suppose your side is pleased.”

Crowley shrugged. “I suppose they are, yeah. Doesn’t mean I am.” Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowley stared at him with a gaze that seemed earnest. And sad. Aziraphale quickly turned away.

The past few days had been lonely. He didn’t have anyone to talk to, not really. Filing a report with Michael wasn’t the same thing as communicating. It was all facts--who, what, when, where. (Why remained unanswered.) Once Michael recorded the facts, Aziraphale was dismissed and sent back down. It was all business. They didn’t consider his--well, his _feelings_ about the matter. He’d known both those boys, and now he knew neither.

He had to talk or he was going to burst. 

And Crowley was there...it wasn’t anything personal. They were both otherworldly creatures stationed on Earth, and they had time to chitchat. Who else were they going to talk to if not each other?

“I told the higher-ups about it. They said not to worry, that it was all part of the Great Plan. Still…” Still, it was upsetting. They’d warned him before he started the position that humans might kill each other, but he didn’t expect it to happen so soon, and in the same family. The first family! Quite a precedent. He hoped it was an anomaly. 

“You’ve still got, er,” Crowley gestured to his own chest and cheek to point out the blood on Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale sighed. “I know. I can’t bring myself to clean it.” He didn’t know why. Keeping a reminder was silly--he’d have to wash it eventually, and he wouldn’t soon forget this incident.

“Would you like me to…?” Crowley asked.

“Would you?” Aziraphale brightened. Crowley gave a small smile and vanished the blood. “It’s terribly upsetting. They bathed together, they nursed together...Their poor parents. And do you know what he said when God asked him what happened? He said ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ Can you believe the nerve of him?” Aziraphale identified the feeling rising up in him as anger. Well, that wouldn’t do. Michael had warned him about emotions--human bodies on the terrestrial plane were susceptible, like rotten meat was susceptible to crawling maggots (two objects which Michael demonstrated). Best to quash it.

If it was part of the Great Plan, then not only was the murder meant to happen, it was also, unambiguously, the right thing. He inhaled, straightened his shoulders, and proclaimed “Ah, well, stiff upper lip. Onward and forward.”

“Oh, Zira,” Crowley said, softly. Sympathy for the devil was one thing, but sympathy _from_ the devil?

“Zira?” Suddenly, nipping _that_ in the bud became the main concern.

“You don’t like it?”

“I don’t particularly care for it, no.”

“...Az?” Crowley ventured.

“Aziraphale,” Aziraphale stated definitively. 

“Aziraphale it is, angel.” 

  
  


**1832**

Aziraphale hoped the French got their issues resolved soon, because their food was delicious but the hassles were almost not worth it. 

This time, he was not in town for the food. He was supposed to do a few miracles. Some students were having a go at yet another revolution, although this one was destined to be a rebellion. The difference between a revolution and a rebellion was failure.

It seemed that the higher-ups were having trouble keeping track of the political movements, because he received conflicting orders to help both the students and the soldiers. What was he supposed to do, hop back and forth from soldiers’ side to students’ side as bullets whizzed past? He tucked himself against the doorframe to a shop, reading over his instructions, trying to figure them out. In front of him, bullets flew and people fell and he determinedly did not look up. Not until he found the logic and reason behind the instructions. He didn’t know why it mattered in the end, but suddenly why it mattered mattered a great deal to him. He didn’t look up when a tall black figure sidled next to him. 

“Hello, Crowley,” he said. “Here on business?”

“Yes. You?”

“Same. It’s the damnedest thing--pardon--my orders cancel each other out. What do yours say?” He figured that whomever Crowley’s orders helped, it would be best for him to focus on the opposite.

“Just the general ‘Make some mischief.’ I added some extra fiber to the horses’ feedstalls.”

Before Aziraphale could think of a response, his eyes froze on a spatter of blood that landed on his parchment and the tip of his fingernail. The fighting had begun in earnest now, the tepid shots replaced by rapid firings.

He found it hard to use his body for something as basic as breathing. A bullet must have pierced his lungs even though he didn’t feel pain and he was not bleeding. He looked up at Crowley to ask if he’d been shot, and then found he couldn’t even speak. _I can’t speak,_ he wanted to say, but for obvious reasons, he couldn’t. Alarm flashed on Crowley’s face, then he quickly arranged a calm, neutral expression and ensconced Aziraphale under his arm.

They retreated to the basement of a dark and disused store. Crowley deposited Aziraphale against a wall and said something about waiting for the gunfire to subside. At least, that’s what Aziraphale thought he said. The words were hazy and the sights were blurry. 

The next thing Aziraphale was conscious of was Crowley crouched in front of him, unbuttoning the top button of his shirt. It was inappropriate enough to draw him out of his reverie.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale asked.

“Loosening your collar so that you can breathe better,” Crowley answered, with an undertone of _What did you_ think _I was doing?_

“Oh.” He ran a hand down his throat. It did feel better. “Thank you.” His biological functions were settling back down, and then there was another crack, louder than any preceding gunshots, followed by a volley of thuds. It came from _inside_ the basement. Aziraphale bolted upright, eyes manically wide. 

Crowley kept repeating “It’s the shelf, it’s the shelf.” One of the shelves had splintered and cracked off, spilling heavy containers of inventory on the ground. It was just the stupid shelf. 

Something in Aziraphale splintered and cracked, too, because soon he was ranting, spewing a build-up of grievances from the past centuries: “...and they don’t see the big picture and they don’t listen to me and they don’t know what they’re doing,” and he was talking about the angels but he meant the humans, also, and he didn’t know why he was a person worth listening to, but he was. He knew things. 

When he was done, he lay limply on the floor like a child, spent after having a tantrum. He felt ridiculous. Crowley was on the other side of the room, pretending to examine the shelf. It wasn’t like he was going to put it back up. At first, Aziraphale thought he was doing him the dignity of pretending his outburst never happened, but then, Crowley spoke.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing a great job.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “A great job for _your_ side.”

“No. I think you’re doing a great job for yours.”

Aziraphale opened his eyes and surveyed Crowley. He detected no sarcasm in his voice, no ulterior motive...“You do?”

“Yeah, I mean, for what it’s worth, coming from a demon,” Crowley said, this time much more mumbley. “You’re doing your best and that’s all anyone can ask.”

He’d heard that and said that a million times before to people in need of comfort, but he never once thought to direct it at himself. He was an angel, after all. Standards had to be higher.

“Besides,” Crowley continued, “the administration’s fucked. Why do you think so many of us quit? It was terrible before they had Earth to bother with, and now they have no idea what’s going on because their heads are farther up their asses than Heaven. You’d be a better leader than any of them.”

“I’m not leadership material,” Aziraphale huffed. Crowley didn’t respond.

Exhaustion struck Aziraphale. He wanted nothing more than to read, but it seemed like this was a wax depository with not a book in sight. If the silence lingered, the gunshots would get louder, his heart would thud harder, and he’d hear the bodies falling in the background.

“Let’s pretend we’re human,” Aziraphale said suddenly. 

“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“I mean, let’s think about what we’d be if we were human, if we’ve always been human.”

Crowley smiled crookedly, and Aziraphale could tell he was thinking how silly it was, but Aziraphale also detected a level of amusement, even fondness, at the idea. 

“I’d be a dashing revolutionary, of course. You’d be the spoiled son of aristocratic dogs. When the revolution came, I’d eat you.”

“You’d _eat_ me?” 

“Yes. No. You’d be captured, but I’d convince them to spare you. I’d say, ‘He might be a wanker, but he’s good to have around.’”

Aziraphale smiled and leaned his head against the wall. _Convince them to save me,_ he thought, eyes closed. It was a strange fantasy, but it played out in Aziraphale’s mind as exactly that: a fantasy. Crowley in a crimson red vest with gold trim braided down the front like a xylophone, worshipful students staring at their leader in awe. Aziraphale would be in a corner somewhere, handcuffed and looking sheepish, knowing his existence hinged on the mercy of Crowley’s silver tongue. The capture was more titillating than he would like to admit.

“He’s clever as anything,” Crowley said, picking up on Aziraphale’s silence as encouragement to go on, “a quick study. He’ll be marching beside us and waving the flag in no time. He just needs a little guidance. In the meantime, he can organize our books--er, when we get some--clean a bit. Got beautiful handwriting, too. Very legible. Good for signs, taking minutes...”

Flashes of chores, Aziraphale shelving books while overhearing the students’ meetings, not quite allowed in the inner-circle yet. Skeptical, but occasionally he’d hear something that made him reconsider his conditioned intellectual status quo. Late-night arguments with Crowley about Montesquieu and Rousseau. He’d best Crowley, most of the time, but Crowley is scrappy and smart and puts up a good fight, and eventually Aziraphale’s last defense falls away and he co-leads the rebellion, the spoiled son of an aristocrat alongside the famous Crowley. He’d love to read a book like that.

“An obedient fellow. Does anything you’ll tell him to do, no questions asked.”

The air around Aziraphale chilled, and whatever buoyance he’d felt a second ago turned leaden and dense. 

“Bastard,” Aziraphale said, so quietly and suddenly neither of them were completely sure he’d spoken at first. 

“Angel, I didn’t mean it. Not in a bad way.” Crowley’s voice was soft and consoling in the way he only used when he meant it. And Aziraphale knew that he was meant to take it as a compliment, despite the demon’s own history with obedience. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to stop sulking, even when Crowley suggested they zap back to London. 

“I have--I have to do things out there. It might already be too late. Ooh, what a mess.” He threw his head back and stared at the ceiling.

A piece of parchment fluttered down from the ceiling. _More_ orders? He snatched it out of the air a bit too aggressively.

He read it once, twice. Sixteen times. 

“Aziraphale? What is that?” Crowley asked.

He read it a seventeenth and inhaled deeply before answering.

“It seems,” he began, slowly, “it seems that I was sent here in error. 

“...Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“They were experimenting with autogenerated missions,” Aziraphale continued. Aziraphale could practically hear Crowley biting back rude comments about the administration in his head. 

“Would you like to go home, then?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale looked up at him. “I need a moment, I think.” It was hard, having your body come up and down and up like that. He didn’t know how humans did it.

**1914**

As a rule, Aziraphale did not like to travel, and his interest only waned over time. It made sense to make his home and homebase in London. It was a econo-socio-politico-cultural epicenter, but it was not as glitzy as Los Angeles or as ostentatious as New York; besides, he couldn’t imagine himself in America long-term. He’d always be viewed as a gaijin in Tokyo and Berlin never beckoned him for more than a quick visit. Rome was a bit too on-the-nose. Mostly, he felt like an Englishman at heart. It was silly; the concept of nationalities struck him as absurd, but after so much time drinking tea and walking down cobblestone streets, he felt more English than angelic.

But something propelled him to a small, under-siege village in a far-flung country. Humans invented this thing called bombs, aerial bombs to be precise. They learned flight and their profit on it was to blow things up. 

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Aziraphale did not expect to hear a word of English here, let alone a familiar voice, but when he looked next to him, there was Crowley.

“Crowley? What are you doing here?”

“Came here for crepes.”

“Ha, ha.” 

“What are you doing? Did they _send_ you here?” Crowley sounded surprised. The higher office had not sent Aziraphale anywhere touchy in a long time. In fact, they were mostly lassez-faire lately, unofficially allowing Aziraphale to make his own choices. Or, presumably, not make any decisions at all. It seemed that they forgot, or didn’t care, or maybe they decided they trusted Aziraphale enough to manage on his own and forgot to give him the memo.

“No, this was an independent decision.”

“You chose to come here?”

“Mhm.”

“By yourself?” It was the same tone as when Crowley found out Aziraphale gave away the flaming sword: mostly incredulous but with enough admiration to make Aziraphale think he did something stupid.

“Mhm.” 

“But you hate warzones.”

Aziraphale didn’t know anyone who liked warzones. From his understanding, even demons were put off by war: the destruction was too fast and impersonal and grand-scale, the complete opposite of the slow, personalized torture Hell was known for. There was perhaps a bit of fear, too, of what would happen if humans turned on demons, not that demons would ever admit it. That was all just psychoanalytical speculation, though.

Besides, this wasn’t even a warzone. War implied reciprocity. This was a pummeling.

“It’s where I thought I could do the most good. They didn’t want me to come here, but I felt it’s where I needed to be. Say, you never told me what _you--”_

Before Aziraphale finished his sentence, Crowley barreled straight into him. Must’ve been about to touch on a sore spot, Aziraphale thought. Then his thoughts turn to panic: their liaisons were discovered, and Crowley’s body was possessed by another demon to dispatch Aziraphale. Or maybe it was Crowley himself who, to show his loyalty, must be the one to take Aziraphale down.

It took the ground bursting up around them for Aziraphale to put two and two together. There was dirt in his mouth and eyes, and he couldn’t decide what he wanted to clean first. Sputtering, he sat up. The dust settled around him, but he couldn’t see black through the brown. “Crowley? Crowley?”

He looked to his left, then to his right. He was looking too high: Crowley was sprawled on the ground, blood trickling down his temple. Somehow, his glasses stayed on his face, albeit diagonally. Aziraphale crouched beside him, calling his name. 

Aziraphale was around humans more than angels, so he was around death more often than discorporation--and death was his immediate thought when he spotted Crowley.

Aziraphale’s breathing was hurried and ragged, which was better than Crowley’s, who didn’t seem to be breathing at all. When he grabbed Crowley’s arm, his hand came away bloody. 

“Please wake up,” Aziraphale whimpered. “Please, please don’t be dead…” He stops just short of praying, though, because the higher-ups might hear him say _anyone but Crowley_.

“Owww,” Crowley whinged, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. He pushed himself into a sitting position and fixed his glasses with his good arm. Aziraphale wanted to fling himself at Crowley, for protection and comfort and relief. Thankfully, he was too stunned to move. 

“Don’t--don’t move,” Aziraphale said, his voice quivering. “You’re hurt.”

“It’s just my arm.” Before Crowley could heal himself, Aziraphale spotted a local approaching them, saying something in her native language. She gestured broadly to a hut. Aziraphale nudged his head in her direction. 

“You can’t heal yourself in front of her. It’ll look suspicious.” 

“Oh, bollocks, I can’t heal myself at all,” Crowley admitted. “I don’t want Hell to know I’m here. And you can’t heal me, obviously…”

The woman was close enough now to grab each of them by an arm and tug them up, towards her home. She yelled at them like they were idiots and maybe they were.

Once inside, she pushed them down onto tiny chairs at a table. Aziraphale smiled gratefully up at her. He wished he were better with languages, but there were so many he would need to learn one a day for the next 6,000 years, not to mention all the dead ones.

The woman set an amber bottle and a small metal box on the table.

“Oh, bless,” Aziraphale said. If there was one thing that could make Crowley feel better, it was hard liquor. The woman opened the box. It was a collection of sewing supplies--needles, spools of different colour thread, scissors and such. The woman took the scissors out of the box and cut through Crowley’s damage sleeve. 

“I hope that wasn’t one of your nice jackets,” Aziraphale said. He was so happy to have Crowley back that he’d indulge the man’s obsession with his identical-looking black coats. He’d dote on the surviving jackets, paw them, pet them, make them tea and tuck them into bed, whatever ridiculous ministrations to show how sorry he was about the jacket.

“Did it look like a nice one?” Crowley snapped.

“I can never tell with yours.” 

“No. I was smart enough not to wear one of my nice jackets since I knew it’d get ruined saving your oblivious arse.”

The wound and the surrounding flesh was ugly and dark and made Aziraphale wince. The woman grabbed the whiskey bottle and poured it over Crowley’s arm without preamble. Crowley yowled and swore, and Aziraphale didn’t think twice before clasping his hand. Crowley stareds, his lips parted, his face oddly blank. Aziraphale casually grabbed his wrist instead, in a manner he hoped was both equally comforting and more appropriate. Crowley was still so thoroughly distracted by the placement of Aziraphale’s hands that he didn’t even notice the woman threading a needle.

“Er, I don’t mean to be rude, but maybe, er, maybe we should fix his arm before his coat?” Aziraphale asked. He could tell Crowley was rolling his eyes, but he had no idea why. 

“She’s going to stitch up my arm,” Crowley explained.

“Stitch?” Aziraphale squeaked. “With a needle and thread?”

“What else do you stitch things with?”

“I--I thought they have special thread for that.”

The first time the needle went through his skin, Crowley hissed and scrunched his whole body. Normally, Aziraphale would look away, but this time he watched the fingers move nimbly and carefully as they closed up the wound. He might need to know how to do it in the future.

“It’s okay, dear,” Aziraphale said. He comforted the injured and dying before, but it was different with Crowley. He was a demon, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure demons found comfort comforting. Judging by Crowley’s strange, discordant looks, he found it baffling. 

Aziraphale looked at the woman with bright, attentive eyes and gave her an encouraging smile. She finished the stitches.

“Thanks, thanks,” Crowley said hastily. He wanted to leave. Aziraphale smiled and waved farewell, and once they’d walked enough distance to be out of sight, they zapped to Aziraphale’s bookstore.

“Please tell me you did something nice for her,” Crowley said, dropping into a chair.

“Her crops will be bountiful and her home will be protected for as long as my blessing will hold,” Aziraphale said. “Crowley, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Let me get you a mug of--a shot of--a glass of--whatever you want. And a new jacket.”

“It’s fine. There’s no lasting damage.” 

“I suppose you can heal it now,” Aziraphale said pleasantly and hopefully, setting a bottle of Crowley’s favorite bourbon in front of him. He really, really wanted the wound to go away. He didn’t like looking at it, and he didn’t know how he could move forward in the future with a reminder of what he’d almost lost.

Crowley stared at the dark stitches on his arm. “Ah, looks kind of cool, doesn’t it? Scars are pretty badass.” Crowley held up his arm proudly.

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. “I think it makes you look like a hero,” he agreed. Crowley mostly wore long sleeves, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**1925**

Aziraphale was happy to see humans thriving; it had been touch-and-go there for a while, and he’d feared the nations were going to bring about the end of the world before Satan had the chance. They called it “The Great War,” ostensibly referring to its size, except too many people seemed raring and ready to fight, so “Great” could have very well been their opinion on the opportunity to test their brand new murder-toys.

Aziraphale spent four years waffling about whether to ask Gabriel and Michael for reinforcements. He never did. Any day, he told himself every day, they humans would come to their senses and throw down their arms and realize their grievous mistakes. Any day, any day...Eventually, the day _did_ come, sparing him a visit upstairs--eventually, after a staggering death toll of almost forty million. He tried not to dwell on how many lives could have been spared with celestial aid. Most likely, Gabriel would not have offered assistance. It was not Heaven’s place to interfere in that manner. 

Hopefully, the humans learned a lesson. Looking at the damage they had wrought to their own planet, how could they not?

Now they were in an era of good food, good drink, good music, good literature and poetry. Crowley didn’t appreciate the literature and poetry as much--or the food, for that matter--but he enjoyed the night life and the cars, and he enjoyed going to Aziraphale’s bookshop and having a few glasses of liquor. In the spirit of the times, Crowley had had a bit too much to drink; so, for that matter, had Aziraphale. 

“It’s wonderful to see them thrive, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said. The record player emitted _My Melancholy Baby._ He’d tried to foist Gene Austin on Crowley to no avail; now, Aziraphale simply played the music because it was his shop and he called the shots. Anyway, if Crowley heard the song enough, he’d grow to like it. That was how music worked.

“It’s a shame it won’t last. What goes up must come down. It’s the law of gravity.” Crowley never lost a wager betting on despair, but his pessimistic predictions seemed to make him no happier for being right. Aziraphale, on the other hand, would walk home without his wallet and his shirt if he played optimism as his hand, but he’d rather clutch his last scrap of hope until it was torn away from him.

“Gravity is a matter of physics, not economics.”

“It’s metaphorical gravity.”

“Gravity is quite literal.”

“It’s a shame,” Crowley repeated, this time sorrowfully. Whereas Aziraphale enjoyed human prosperity for the sake of peace on earth and good will toward men (and women and everyone else), Crowley allegedly liked reaping its benefits: progress varied both the means and methods of temptation, made things interesting--and that, Crowley claimed, is why he liked prosperity, and for no greater or lesser reason. Despite what Crowley claimed, there were moments when Aziraphale was convinced that Crowley was rooting for the little buggers and disheartened when they failed.

“Maybe it will.” Aziraphale was only half-joking, maybe less than half. Humans had found a way around literal gravity; why couldn’t they beat the metaphorical constraints imposed on and controlled by themselves? 

“Even if it doesn’t, no use dampening the night,” Crowley poured another glass of wine for both of them and, with a flick of his hand, switched the record to something upbeat.

“What would we be if we were humans?” Aziraphale asked. The wine emboldened him and made him in the mood for a story, but not in the mood to read. He rested his head in his hand and waited for Crowley’s answer.

“I’d be a millionaire. Fabulously wealthy, nouveau riche. Worked my way up from nothing.”

“What trade?”

“Shady business dealings. Don’t concern yourself with it.” Crowley waved his hand dismissively, as if it were simply too cool for Aziraphale to hear.

“Ah. Go on.” Aziraphale crossed his leg over his knee. This was going to amuse him.

“I throw fabulous parties, each one more lavish than the last. Everyone’s invited. Word spreads throughout the land.” He waved his arm grandly to show just how widespread news of his parties travelled, and Aziraphale couldn’t suppress a grin. “It’s as if my house expands to fit the guests. I don’t even know them, they don’t know me, but everyone know _of_ me, and that’s the important thing.”

“And where do I figure in?”

“You’re a long-lost love. We were young, pitifully young, when we met, and we each had obligations. Our time together was fleeting, but our feelings were not. And so from then on, everything I did, everything I became, it was to wind up in your orbit. The parties I threw for thousands of people? They were really for you. But you never came.”

“Obviously not, I’m a bit of an introvert,” Aziraphale said, unable to dim his smile.

“So I try a new tack. A quieter one. And we get together. Our obligations still try to keep us apart, but our insatiable yearning for each other cannot be stopped--”

Aziraphale’s grin broke wide open into a near-laughter. “Crowley, dear, don’t finish, that’s the plot of _The Great Gatsby._ ”

“What? No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is, and if you keep going you’ll wind up dead in a pool.” 

Crowley tucked his hands tightly under his armpits and squirmed. “No, I won’t. I made it up just now.”

Laughing, Aziraphale went to a bookshelf. His organization system was such that only he could find his books, and find them immediately. “Don’t be stubborn! See, right here: ‘“Gatsby bought that house so that Daisy would be right across the bay. I think he half-expected her to wander into one of his parties one night,” went on Jordan. Then it had not been merely the stars to which he had aspired on that June night. He came alive to me, delivered suddenly from the womb of his purposeless splend--’”

“Alright, give it here,” Crowley said, lunging playfully for the book. What Aziraphale lacked in offense, he made up for in defense: he pressed the book to his chest and ducked over it. Crowley meant to grab the book and only the book and nothing but the book, but they were both very drunk and the book was in Aziraphale’s hands, so…

Crowley’s hand wound up covering Aziraphale’s and their fingers became a mess of fingers. In a moment, they both noticed it, acknowledged it, and separated immediately as if an invisible force field sprung up between them.

“We should, uh,” Crowley said.

“Our obligations,” Aziraphale said at the same time. Suddenly, the night became very sober. Crowley cleared his throat and left with a few hastily muttered good-byes.

“And so we beat on, then.” Aziraphale muttered to himself, staring at the book in his hands. He placed it back on the shelf in the silence of the store.

* * *

  


**1927**

Aziraphale’s true form was brighter than any star but staring at the sun in human form was prohibited. It could damage the body--not destroy the whole thing, but the eyes would break, and fixing them would be a lot of paperwork and embarrassment. If he opted to avoid the bureaucracy, then the rest of his time down on Earth would be awfully inconvenient.

But the sky was free game. He liked to look at it on beautiful days, when it was a shade of blue parents swaddle newborns in, and the clouds, if there were any, promised good weather, not storms.

“What’s the hellish equivalent of skygazing?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale didn’t notice when Crowley sat next to him, but Crowley showed up fairly frequently, always discreetly, and Aziraphale was conditioned not to be surprised.

“Hm?” 

“You know, how humans stare up at the sky, and that’s where Heaven’s supposed to be. What would be Hell’s equivalent.” 

“Spelunking,” Aziraphale answered almost immediately. He wondered, though, whether humans looked at the sky because it reminded them of heaven or because they thought it was pretty. For him, it was the latter. The sky was never more beautiful than when he pretended there was nothing above it but planets and stars. If he wanted to think of Heaven, he’d peak into the highest, loneliest office overlooking Canary Wharf on a dreary February afternoon.

“Yes. That makes sense. It’s underground, dark, cold…”

“Is Hell cold? I always thought it was hot.”

“It’s whatever temperature you don’t want it to be,” Crowley said. 

Hell would be hot, then, because heat was sticky and at least in the cold, Aziraphale could pull on a nice cardigan and curl up with a mug of cocoa. If there was cocoa in hell. He was pretty sure there were cardigans.

“ _Spelunking,_ ” Crowley tested out the word with relish, as many people did once they learned it. “Should’ve thought of that.”

“It’s not as common as skygazing. You need all sorts of equipment.”

“I suppose. Would you ever do it? Spelunking?”

“Why would I?”

“Dunno. Experience the totality of human...experience,” Crowley finished weakly.

“I don’t think there is a totality of human experience.” It was one of the most gloriously delightful terrors of being on Earth: despite living every _when,_ Aziraphale could not be every _where_ or every _body._ He’d never know what it would be like to be a woman in Australia or a child growing up in China.

“Would you ever do anything different? Anything at all? New hairstyle, new, I don’t know, new clothes…”

“This hairstyle works for me.” Sometimes, the only way to get Crowley to back off was to smile politely and pretend to be pleasantly stupid. He knew Crowley used the same tactic on him. 

* * *

**1940**

As Crowley predicted, the good times didn’t last.

The stock market crash did not trouble Aziraphale at first. The ones who had the most money could learn to do with less of it. Of course, the destitution soon spread far and wide. Aziraphale gave alms when he could, but he was not permitted to perform any loaves-and-fishes-type miracles. It was up to the humans to, say, distribute resources equitably, or print more money, or reassign the values they placed on goods and services. Economics had never been Aziraphale’s strong suit--forget ineffable; it was completely incomprehensible.

But soon it wasn’t just the pesky exchange of paper plaguing humans. It was war. So soon after the last one, too. And torture and captivity. New horrors everyday (or, more accurately, old horrors on a scale heretofore unseen). Aziraphale considered reading the news to be his civic duty, inasmuch as an otherworldly being could describe his connections to the Earth as civic, but it made him so angry. Each day, his grip on the paper would tighten, and his vision would blur, and he’d feel the oft-written sinking feeling in his stomach. 

Sometimes he got so worked up, he threw the paper across the table or tore off his useless glasses and pressed his fingers against his eyes. They didn’t need to be this way, the humans. That was the frustrating part. They could choose so many different things--individually, collectively, selflessly, bravely. It took thousands of years and millions of decisions to arrive at this point. They could have turned back at any point.

He thought of Abel’s blood splattering on his robes and wondered if all the violence and war and bloodshed were preordained.

He knew that families sat together for breakfast and talked about the news, and employees discussed current events with their co-workers, from a more-or-less egalitarian perspective--”egalitarian” meaning they were all of the same species, and any variation in so-called status was their generally agreed-upon mass delusion. Who did he have? Certainly no other angel, upstairs or down, would share his sympathies and frustrations. There was Crowley, but...

But Crowley seemed awfully certain about the imminent downfall. How well did he know Crowley, really? 

He shook his head. He knew Crowley better than he knew anyone. And Crowley was--he wanted to say “a good soul,” but Crowley was a demon. By definition, Crowley was a _bad_ soul. With a vested interest in bringing other souls down with him. For all the time they spent together, they spent more time apart, working their respective missions. 

His ruminations were interrupted by the door jingling open. 

“Speak of the devil,” Aziraphale muttered, with a twisted smile. He felt dark--he felt the way angels were supposed to feel around demons.

“Beg pardon?” Crowley asked in a way that indicated he’d heard Aziraphale quite clearly.

“I was just reading,” Aziraphale said, “about all the mischief and mayhem going on in the world.”

“Isn’t that funny. I was just doing the same thing.” 

“And you’ve come here to gloat?” 

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up so high his glasses slid down his face. “ _Gloat?_ ”

“Yes, gloat! Isn’t this your doing?” Aziraphale clutched the paper and waved it in Crowley’s face.

“My--my doing,” Crowley repeated. “Listen, angel, I go downstairs and I take credit for the messes they create for themselves, but I haven’t lifted a finger to incite violence in centuries. They keep doing this to themselves, and I don’t have to do _anything._ Isn’t it ironic?” There was an unhinged, deranged quality to Crowley’s voice that reminded Aziraphale of what a demon should sound like.

“No,” Aziraphale sniffed, “that’s not, strictly speaking, irony. I don’t know what it is. Sad, I suppose.” 

“‘ _Sad_ ,’” Crowley hissed, but it was more panther than snake. “Tell me, angel, how many books have you read? Hm? Fifty? A hundred? All of them?” 

It seemed rhetorical at first, but Crowley paused for an answer, so Aziraphale gave him one. There was something mocking in Crowley’s tone that made Aziraphale defiant and snotty when he should have been chastened and embarrassed. “Closer to ‘all of them’ than ‘fifty.’” 

“All those words and the only one you can think of is _sad_.” 

Aziraphale swallowed audibly, his ears aching. It was a pitiful word but it held the floodgates in place. If he expounded upon the sadness, he wouldn’t be able to stop. There weren’t enough stars in the sky to quantify self-inflicted human tragedy.

“Would you like an exegesis on human suffering?”

Crowley gave him A Look, and Aziraphale would do anything not to see that Look again because it bordered close to Disdain. It was like a hard thwack to his emotional kneecaps. 

“It’s funny, or ironic, or whatever the word you want to use is--I came here to talk about what _you’re_ doing.”

“What _I’m_ doing? What am I doing?” 

“Exactly. A miracle here and a sprinkle of fairy dust there as if it makes a bit of difference. Aren’t angels supposed to be better?”

“We _are_ better,” Aziraphale said, with more surety than he felt and more superiority than he deserved. Crowley whipped off his sunglasses and fixed Aziraphale with a withering glare. His eyes were fully yellow, the color of his stress. He didn’t know if Crowley knew that the color of his eyes revealed his anxiety. Aziraphale was inclined to believe that if he did know, the glasses would never come off.

“I don’t know how you do it, how you look me in the eye and tell me your side’s the good one. I’m glad I Fell ‘cuz I would’ve done it sooner or later, anyway. At least I got in on the ground floor.”

“And a plum assignment,” Aziraphale mocked.

“Same one as yours.”

“It seems like we’re both being rewarded for our aptitude.”

“Why are you being a shit?”

Aziraphale had hoped Crowley wouldn’t ask, because he didn’t know the answer.

“ _I’m_ being a shit? You barge in here expecting me to do what, exactly?” 

“Nothing. I expect you to do nothing,” Crowley said, “but I had hoped that you would.”

* * *

After Crowley left, It dawned on Aziraphale why he was being such a shit: because Crowley was right. He needed to do something.

This wasn’t going to be a repeat of The Great War. Oh, no. He wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t sit about, wringing his hands, Aziraphale was going to march into Heaven and demand--

Demand what? Also, how? He’d never demanded anything in his life, especially not from Gabriel. 

He shook his head. He couldn’t overthink it.

He marched up to Gabriel and gave him a rundown of what was happening. The death and destruction and sheer torment the humans were inflicting upon each other. He filled him in on The Great War, too, in case that slipped his notice. 

“We need more angels on earth. We have plenty up here.” Aziraphale stopped himself before he screamed, _What are they doing--paperwork? Ten million beings running a place that has run itself for thousands of years. Heaven moves like a strong spin of a wheel: it’ll keep going and going, no need to interfere. Meanwhile, the Earth warps and mutates at a rate of--oh, there’s no Heavenly analog; angels are beings of stasis and stagnation. You can’t fathom evolution, especially not in an abstract sense._

Gabriel cocked his head to the side. “Are you saying you can’t handle your duties, Aziraphale?” 

“I can handle my duties,” Aziraphale said, trying--and failing--to keep his fierce momentum. “I’m just saying, maybe a few more angels can do with such responsibilities. It’s a big world.”

Gabriel looked as if he were very carefully phrasing a question that he already knew the answer to and didn’t particularly care about. It was that smugness and certainty that riled Aziraphale, the confidence of _knowing,_ of only asking questions that he knew the answer to and knowing the answer to all questions. Meanwhile, Aziraphale stood there knowing so much and knowing nothing. 

“No angel wants to be on earth. It would be a punishment literally just a single step up from Hell.” Gabriel demonstrated with his hands--Hell was near his waist, Earth was where his navel would be if he’d ever had an umbilical cord. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and fought his contention with the use of “literally.” He opened his eyes and defended the thing he was meant to defend: “It isn’t that bad.”

“Is it better than Heaven?” Gabriel asked, raising his eyebrows up to his impeccably styled hair. He pantomimed uncertainty whenever he was feeling particularly damn cocksure, which was all the time. 

“Of course not.”

“I have an idea. Instead of demanding more people to do your job, why don’t you, hmm, get better at yours? Your friend Crowley’s been busy. I heard humans are inventing a bomb that can wipe out entire countries.”

Anger rose in Aziraphale before he could stop it. “He wouldn’t—“

He was about to say _He wouldn’t do that_ , but it was a double-edged sword that would skewer himself and Crowley. The lynx-like Gabriel was ready to pounce. Instead, Aziraphale self-corrected, not a moment too soon: “He wouldn’t be able to think of that. Demons are stupid, small-minded, base creatures. If humans listened to demons, they’d still be stuck on thumbscrews and the rack. When it comes to killing, humans think for themselves. And demons or none, they’re always going to find ways to kill each other.”

“I’m confused,” Gabriel said, in a tone that wasn’t confused at all. “I thought you said Earth was a lovely place. I thought you said humans were fundamentally good. I thought you liked them.” 

Aziraphale stopped dead in his tracks. He’d avoided one trap and walked straight into another. 

“It’s complicated.” With Crowley, the answer was always “It’s ineffable.” With Gabriel, the answer was always “It’s complicated.” Neither explanation seemed satisfactory once it was out of Aziraphale’s mouth.

“You are a very peculiar being, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice he didn’t say _angel._

“Right, well, always a pleasure.” Aziraphale gave a small smile and turned to leave.

“While you’re here, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Aziraphale paused, wishing he could pretend not to have heard and walk out, but Gabriel’s baritone was unavoidable. Aziraphale turned around.

Gabriel began, “You are on Earth to save souls, not lives. We’ve been leaving you to your own discretion because we figured you had everything under control and, quite frankly, we don’t want to bother with it. But if you come here demanding more angels on the ground floor, I’m inclined to think you’re doing something wrong. Are you doing something wrong, Aziraphale?”

Aziraphale tried to lighten the tension with a laugh and an awkward “I sure hope not!” Gabriel remained dark and Aziraphale remained tense, so he cleared his throat and said, “No, no, I’m not. I--I don’t think so.”

“Good. Then I don’t want any more heavenly resources used for heroics.”

* * *

**A Passage of Time**

Bravery, as was often written, meant doing the right thing despite being scared. Though this was a more noble definition than simply “not being afraid,” Aziraphale would trade his bravery for fearlessness. 

By both definitions, Aziraphale had performed acts of bravery before. He was terrified every time he stepped into a warzone. He trembled to see what new means of destruction humans invented. But, though he fretted over reports to and strongly worded letters from his superiors, he knew he was never really in mortal danger himself, so he wasn’t really brave. 

Nor had he been heroic. Going where he was told, performing rote rites—those were the actions of a snivelling little paper pusher, not a hero. Heroes were proactive and bold. Gabriel wouldn’t know heroism if it bit him on the ass.

After his meeting with Gabriel, Aziraphale had returned to his bookshop muttering, “Heroics? I’ll show you heroics.” 

Gabriel had specifically instructed Aziraphale not to use any heavenly resources for heroics, so Aziraphale would do his heroics the mortal way (with the help of a few miracles so minor they were practically undetectable). If he wanted to get technical, then he, himself, was a resource of Heaven, as was his time. He did not want to get technical. He wanted to get heroic. And passive-aggressive. 

Most of the time, he wasn’t at risk for anything more dire than discorporation and scolding, but that was out of his control. He wasn’t chasing death. He was chasing daring.

Other than the Nazi-book double-cross fiasco, he wasn't bad at it. And he’d be the first to admit that the book scheme was above his aptitude. Actually, no, Crowley would jump at the chance to bring up that fiasco. 

“So let me get this straight,” Crowley had said on the car ride back, “you embarked on a mission of deception, betrayal, subterfuge, and cunning…when you are a being of honesty, loyalty, openness and...er, guilelessness.” 

“Hmm.”

“Naivete.”

“Mhm.”

“Gullibility.”

Aziraphale wasn't in any position to argue. It had been quite a mess, and Crowley had saved him.

But Crowley had no idea how many missions Aziraphale executed successfully and how many more he'd do in the future. The traits Crowley had rattled off--deception and subterfuge and cunning--those were a matter of practice and learning. This third secret life (mild-mannered bookshop owner by day, angel by evening, spy-angel by night) gave Aziraphale a little thrill, and he wasn't going to give it up because of his natural ineptitude.

* * *

**1972**

Aziraphale’s favorite type of mission was infiltrating cults, specifically the ones that endangered lives. It suited his skill-set perfectly. He was an expert in religions and religion-adjacent-organizations. He was troublingly good at pretending to be a dedicated cult member. Plus, if the angels caught wind of what he was doing, he could argue that he was saving souls. The trickiest part was making sure no one ascribed miracles to him, because then he’d be the one they started worshipping, and that would put him in quite an uncomfortable position. 

The 1960s and 1970s were wild times and provided Aziraphale with numerous opportunities to join communes with a weird dietary restrictions or attend strange chanting meetings in some bearded squatter’s living room. 

Not to be dismissive: cults were dangerous and could be deadly. They tended to favour group suicide-by-poison, so he’d discreetly wave the poison away and all would be well. The members would live to see days of recovery and happiness, and the leaders would get put in jail. As long as Aziraphale didn’t drink the Kool-Aid (and he would never, ever drink Kool-Aid), he’d be fine. 

Some, such as the group he was currently working on, favoured fire. Again, not a big issue for Aziraphale in terms of safety or exertion. Usually he just made sure the fire didn’t ignite and someone in the group would dramatically renounce the leader as a fraud. If no one else did it, then the responsibility fell to Aziraphale, who enjoyed pointing an accusatory finger and saying “This man is a fraud!” more than he cared to admit.

Currently, the dozens of followers gathered in the upper floor of a rickety old house. It was their big night. In the front of the room, the cult leader droned on and on about sacrifice and Ascension, essentially the same speech Aziraphale heard dozens of times before from different demagogic maniacs. The leader had a tacky ornate torch that looked like a large-mouthed frog with serpents slinking around it. “This is the torch that will bring you to salvation,” the leader rumbled. 

Aziraphale thought about dinner--he didn’t know why, but he was in the mood for a nice roast with trimmings. It wasn’t like he needed to pay full attention to something as simple as staunching a flame.

But when the moment came, the ceremonial torch was lit ablaze. Aziraphale fell out of his thoughts. 

“This,” the leader said, “is hellfire--”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said. That wasn’t what he expected. Surely it couldn’t be real hellfire? He looked around. The humans did not seem troubled. Fire was fire, after all, and this was what they signed up for.

“--for no mortal flame is strong enough to--Is there a problem, Anthony?” (Being out and about in the world meant he needed a name. He couldn’t just go by “Mr. Fell,” nor could he merely go by “A.” So, when they asked his name, he said the first thing that came to mind, then winced, then realized he couldn’t change it. When they asked him what the “Z.” stood for, he responded “Zacharias,” and winced again, wondering how he’d wound up with such a terrible name.)

“Nope! No problem! Excited to, er--is that real hellfire?”

“Are you questioning our authenticity?”

“Didn’t mean to! Very impressive!” 

Hives popped up on his arm. Yes, that would be hellfire.

He wasn’t able to prevent its ignition, nor would he be able to extinguish it. The only thing to do now was get the hell out--run, maybe even vanish, before the whole building went up in flames. 

But he couldn’t back down now. He’d spent too much time leading former members away from the cult and waiting for this moment to ensure the desperate hangers-on made it to safety.

“Run! Everyone out! That man is a fraud! He’s sentencing you all to hell!” Aziraphale shouted. It worked surprisingly well: the humans came to their senses and ran screaming from the building. It wasn’t Aziraphale’s smoothest rescue, but it did the job. 

The leader did not seem at all chafed by his fleeing flock. Instead, he slinked toward Aziraphale with a malicious smirk and flashing red eyes. The torch remained in his grip.

“So the rumors were true. The angel Aziraphale treads where he shouldn’t dare.” 

“You’re a demon, then?” Aziraphale asked. He looked upward at the ceiling and spotted a large angelic sigil that prevented teleportation. He looked back at the figure in front of him.

“Took you long enough to figure it out.”

Aziraphale might do dumb things but he was fundamentally intelligent, generally prepared, and fairly invested in self-preservation. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small vial, barely larger than a bullet, but large enough to do the trick. He uncapped it and threw it at the leader. It wasn’t the time to bother with names or details or information that might be useful in the future. If that lapse of judgement came back to bite him, he’d worry about it then. Right now, he needed to focus on the present moment.

Surprise attacks were often described with, “he never knew what hit him.” In this case, it was not true. The leader knew what hit him as he sizzled and melted into a puddle on the floor: a tablespoon of holy water. The holiest.

Now, Aziraphale only had to contend with the fallen torch. 

“No problem,” he told himself, his eyes wide in fear. Smoke inhalation was not nearly as much of a problem as the flames themselves (for humans, it tended to be the reverse), so as long as he avoided the flames, he should, theoretically, be able to make it out alive. As long as he avoided the flames, which were rapidly spreading. As long as he avoided the flames, which encircled the room and blocked the door.

He got low to the ground, which was what one was supposed to do in a fire, but he kept his eyes on the ceiling. Compared to the destruction on the ground, the destruction of the ceiling seemed to happen in slow motion, and he needed it to happen immediately. He needed the flames to eat through the panels until the sigil broke and he could teleport outside. It seemed like it was never going to happen. He covered his nose and mouth and tried not to breathe. The smoke tendriled in anyway. His vision darkened, and he soon lost sight of the sigil.

When debris started raining down on his head, he knew he was free to make his escape.

* * *

He didn’t have the strength to go far. He wound up sprawled on his back, on the grass, where he could still see the building collapsing in the distance.

Smoke inhalation was more of a problem than he thought. Angels generally weren’t around hellfire and when they were, they tended to burn to death, not escape-- hence no studies on the after-effects. The verdict was still out on whether it was fatal or just very painful. He’d find out soon enough.

He curled up hoping--but very carefully not praying--not to go back to Heaven. It would be humiliating. He’d rather stay here, coughing and suffering.

Or maybe the scolding would be preferable. It wasn’t mere coughing: his body was wracked with it, he couldn’t stop it, and the more he coughed, the less he could breathe. He curled his knees to his chest as if making his body smaller, more navigable, would take some stress off his lungs. 

No, he was thinking like a human. The damage was clearly to his ethereal form, and for that, there were only two options: die or go to Heaven for repairs. Two very bad options.

Obviously, he didn’t want to die. He also didn’t want to writhe in pain in front of the angels, who, at this point, might just view him as cats viewed mice--weak creatures to batter around for fun before killing them. 

His vision grew blurry around the edges, then the center.

OK, maybe he was being unfair to the angels. They weren’t that bad. He took one rattling breath, preparing himself for a prayer, and then felt his upper body lifted and his head placed on something soft, and heard a voice above him growling, “I’d be a paramedic, and you’d be a bloody idiot who runs into a burning building…”

* * *

He woke up in a rather large bed with comfortable sheets, which was nice. The imposing plant hanging over his head was disconcerting, but at least it indicated where he was.

He looked to his left. Crowley was sprawled out in a chair, feet stretched in front of him, practically diagonal. At first, he couldn’t tell if Crowley was asleep under the glasses. He knew the demon actually _liked_ to sleep. But, almost the instant after Aziraphale opened his eyes, Crowley grabbed a cup of water off the bedside table and put it in front of Aziraphale’s face, holding the straw in place between his index finger and thumb. It was a touching gesture; out of respect to Crowley's professional goals, he'd never let him know just how touching it was. 

“Sorry it isn’t holy,” Crowley said as Aziraphale drank. “Had a priest perform some rituals to fix the smoke damage, though. He wanted to bless the house afterwards and I threw him right out.”

“You brought me to your flat,” Aziraphale observed. Aziraphale couldn’t remember if he’d ever been. Maybe the foyer, certainly not the bedroom. They tended to meet up in the bookstore or the park or whatever fascinating new restaurant Aziraphale wanted to try.

“Figured my bed was more comfortable than your place, seeing as you don’t sleep.”

It was true: Crowley slept in style. The sheets were silk and the mattress was, funnily enough, like a cloud. He gripped the comforter, which was another marvel of softness and fabric. They’d really come along way from the scratchy nineteenth century bed he now used to put papers on.

“How do you always know when I need saving?” 

“It’s easy. You always need saving.”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale conceded, “that it’s becoming a pattern.”

Crowley huffed and crossed his arms. “I thought you learned your lessons after the church in Germany.”

“What lesson was I supposed to learn?” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes. Of course Crowley would never know what moral and spiritual obligations were like, what it was like to exist with expectations other than “cause some mischief.” Aziraphale would envy him for it, if envy weren’t a sin. 

“Not to save people. You’re supposed to save souls, not lives.”

“You sound just like them,” Aziraphale said, rolling his eyes Heavenward. Aziraphale was grateful for Crowley’s rescue. He was. And he’d show that gratitude when he wasn’t being chastised for Doing The Right Thing.

Crowley resented the comparison to his former Hosts and growled, “Or--if you are going to help people, why can’t you do something like--like--” He struggled to think of an example. “Give ‘em a quid or something, don’t sacrifice your bloody life.” 

Aziraphale must have looked particularly vulnerable in that moment because Crowley shifted from scolding to whining: “I sat vigil for days. It was boring as Heaven. And I had things to do. Errands to run. People to meet.”

“Sorry to interrupt your plans, dear. I do appreciate your concern.” Although he meant it sincerely, he tried to match Crowley’s flippancy, and the phrasing inevitably seemed sarcastic.

“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care,” Crowley huffed. Crowley tended to assume, because his eyes were covered, that his emotions were concealed; he never realized that the rest of his face compensated for what his eyes hid. In many cases, overcompensated. In this case, his entire face was crumpled like a pouting infant trying very hard not to cry.

The problem was that he was lying in bed looking like an invalid, Aziraphale thought. He pressed his palms down on the mattress to push himself upright. He’d barely applied pressure before Crowley’s hands were flat on his chest, pushing him down.

“ _Lay down, you idiot, you almost died!_ ”

There was a moment of awkward silence during which the only sound was Crowley angrily adjusting the pillows underneath Aziraphale to set him upright. Then there was a longer stretch of sulking. Crowley folded his arms petulantly. 

“I _am_ sorry.” Aziraphale said, gently. If angels prohibited heroics, he could only imagine the demonic policy. What it meant for Crowley to pull Aziraphale out of trouble time and time again. By nature, Crowley was better at deception and fudging paperwork, but, by that same nature, he should have been worse at tucking people into bed and preparing cups of water on the bedside table. Maybe Crowley did have expectations other than causing mischief. If he did, he placed them on himself. 

“Just don’t do it again,” Crowley muttered, ducking his head. “If you go anywhere, I’ll be stuck with Michael or some other wanker. And you’ll be locked up in angel time-out, and the food won’t be as good, you know that, right? And if you’re dead, well, then, you’re dead…” Crowley couldn’t find a place to look. He kept moving his head and shaking his leg and trying very hard not to seem distressed.

Now feeling very foolish, Aziraphale stared at Crowley, wanting to apologize (though the first two attempts had failed) and to thank him (but what words would be adequate?) His twice-defiant friend--defying defiance itself. 

So he’d defy, too, in his own way. He put his hand on the side of Crowley’s face and ran his thumb along Crowley’s cheekbone, giving him a sad, sympathetic smile. It bordered close to a gesture of absolution; for all their talk of forgiveness and grace, angels would not be pleased if they knew it was being used on a demon. 

Crowley flinched, which Aziraphale expected, but did not pull away, which Aziraphale half-expected. Then he leaned closer, which Aziraphale did not expect at all, until only a few molecules of air lay between them.

Aziraphale closed the distance.

Kissing Crowley wasn’t anything at all like Aziraphale imagined, because he never imagined it. He hadn’t allowed himself to. But, retroactively imagining it, he wouldn’t have expected Crowley to be gentle. Demons were hungry, lustful creatures. Crowley wasn’t. It was Aziraphale who initiated, Aziraphale who rose from the bed and backed Crowley against the wall while Crowley went along with it cautious yet obliging, as if worried that more force would make the moment dissipate like a dream. 

Crowley pulled away first, holding Aziraphale at arm’s length, brow furrowed in concern.

“The smoke’s out of my lungs,” Aziraphale said.

“Ooh, that’s very sexy.” 

“Hush. You know what I mean.” Aziraphale kissed him again, because what was one more time in the grand scheme of things? Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale in a boa constrictor grip, now that he was certain Aziraphale wouldn’t suffocate.

“If we were human, we’d have been lovers from the start. I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of you.” Crowley had lapsed into a low growl. Much more suited to Aziraphale’s expectation for a lustful demon. 

_From the_ start? The voice inside Aziraphale’s head squeaked. 

“From day one. At the gate,” Crowley growled, as if reading his mind. 

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of that. Crowley was in front of him now, making his way down Aziraphale’s neck, and they could have been doing this the entire time.

  
He had six thousand years to make up for, and he'd start now.


End file.
